Détente
by Irena K
Summary: She really hated the mall. And she wasn't too fond of the man sitting across from her, either. Book'verse.


Disclaimer: They belong to Jim Butcher.

Feedback: is a girl's best friend. Constructive criticism is, as always, actively encouraged.

Spoilers: Everything up through _Small Favor_ is fair game.

Notes: Originally written for Yuletide 2008.

Rating: PG for language.

Special thanks once again to Jaina for the super-quick beta.

-

DÉTENTE

-

Karrin Murphy wound her way through the last-minute shoppers and tacky holiday trappings. Even on Christmas Eve, children still stood in line to see a fake Santa resting with an exhausted slump on his artificial throne. She paused to look at a sunglasses kiosk doing brisk sale despite the cold gray of a Chicago winter. She debated getting an extra pair to keep in the car in case she left her Versaces behind at home or work, but decided if she was at the point where she was leaving designer sunglasses about, she had bigger problems. She moved on.

The food court at half-past noon was a mass of expanding and contracting humanity, lines long at every stand. Murphy stuck her hand in her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the letter yet again. She'd read it to the point of memorization, yet when she spotted him sitting next to the center fountain, she almost didn't believe it.

He looked normal in the midst of the crowd. Big but not unusually so, knit cap pulled over his ears, pea coat unbuttoned but not shed. He drank from a cup of overpriced coffee and marked a paper in front of him, likely the crossword. He even had shopping bags from Radio Shack at his feet. Just another guy who couldn't get it together to go shopping for Christmas earlier.

You'd never think he was one of the most powerful crime lords in Chicago. Which, she thought, was probably the point.

Marcone looked up and through some eerie radar all his own, managed to find her staring at him. He met her eye and gave her a slight nod. Contact made and acknowledged. She walked over.

"Sergeant Murphy," he greeted her.

"Mr. Marcone."

He gestured at the chair across from him. "Please, have a seat."

Inside her coat pockets, her hands curled into fists. She was tempted to arrest him right there and then, kick his seat out from under him, slap the cuffs on and haul him downtown. She couldn't even say she could make a case against him at the moment; she just wanted to see what he'd do.

She sat.

"I got your note," she said.

"Yes, I see."

"I don't like being summoned."

"I assure you that wasn't my intent." He pushed a second cup of coffee toward her, half-and-half and packets of sugar stacked on its plastic lid. "I wasn't certain how you preferred your coffee."

She looked down at the drink but made no move to pick it up. "You sent me a letter."

"Yes."

"Hand-written."

"Yes."

"What, no telegrams available? No messenger pigeons?"

"Phones can be tapped and computers hacked. I was trying to be... discreet." He tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes darting to the side and back again. "I thought it would be better. For both of us."

"Uh-huh." She looked around, took in the crowd. "Have to say, I wouldn't think this would be your style."

"Did you expect a smoky Italian bistro instead? A group of men in expensive, tailored suits and gold chains sitting at the back booth?"

"Something like that."

He smiled. Not much, but it was there. "I thought someplace public might make you more comfortable."

"What if someone recognizes you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Sergeant, do you honestly believe any of these people are paying the least bit of attention to us?"

She had to admit that was a good point. "Still, with your ear being a bit more noticeable now, I wouldn't think you'd want to take a chance."

His hand made an abortive move toward his scarred side, but he managed to force it back down before it got there. Huh. So that did still bother him and he hadn't managed to overcome the tell yet. Interesting.

"And yet, here I sit, hat on and no one the wiser," he said. "Come now, aren't you going to ask me what this meeting is about?"

She ignored the prod. All in good time. "I can imagine the hissy fit your people threw when they realized the logistics of staking this place out."

He sighed. "Yes, Mr. Hendricks was especially displeased, but as he is still in my employ, he had no choice in the matter."

"He here?"

"He's around. Is Mr. Dresden?"

She wasn't all that surprised by the question. Truthfully, she had thought about asking him to come and give her some back-up just in case this went south. But at the end of the day, Marcone had gone through some trouble to contact her directly, bypassing Harry entirely. And cop's instinct or not, that had her mighty curious.

"No." At his questioning look, she said, "You're subtle. This?" She let her hand encompass the shops and people around them. "Not exactly subtle. I figured if you were going to try something, you'd have better taste than to do it in front of a crowded mall on Christmas Eve."

He inclined his head, conceding the point. "I would like to think so, yes."

"So," she said.

"So."

"Why am I here?"

He leaned over and reached into his shopping bag. Murphy stiffened, for a wild moment wondering if she had read him wrong, if he really _was_ planning on pulling out a weapon and giving her one lousy Christmas present. But no, he only retrieved a plain manila envelope and placed it on the table.

"Occasionally, the nature of my business brings to my attention the activities of certain members of the Chicago police department. Some of those activities, I suspect, would not be looked kindly on by your superiors." He pushed the envelope toward her. "I thought you might find this information interesting."

She swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "What-what the hell is this?"

He sat back, the forefinger of his right hand tapping against the Formica tabletop. "A debt owed. Take it."

"You – you're -" She couldn't speak, could barely _breath_, because – oh, shit. Shitshitshit. "So, I – what? Take this and then you – you call in a favor? Is that what you really think of me?"

Marcone blinked, appearing genuinely taken aback. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood. The debt was mine to repay." When she answered with baffled silence, he added, "For services rendered earlier this year."

"Oh, Jesus." Her head fell into her hands, the weight that pressed down on her shifting in nature. "Jesus fucking Chirst."

"Don't blaspheme," he said in the automatic, off-hand tone of a former Catholic.

A little laughter seeped out despite herself. Because, well, _Gentleman Johnnie Marcone_ was scolding her like a grade school nun.

Once she got herself under control, she looked up and pushed the envelope back. "You don't owe me anything."

"I'm afraid I do."

"No, no, seriously, you don't. You-" She broke off, shook her head. "God, do you have any idea how fucked up that is? Keeping a damn tally?"

"Regardless, I must insist." He pushed it back toward her. "I have found myself in debt to several people this last year. I have done my best to ensure Mr. Carpenter's family will not worry over medical costs and while I am certain Mr. Dresden and I will have the opportunity to trade favors again, I have no such assurance with you."

She folded her arms across her chest. "There's no obligation here, okay? I did what I did because that's what I do."

"As do I."

Tap, tap, tap. Nerves, she realized. Marcone was actually nervous. And this small thing, the tapping of a finger, that was new. She'd seen some of the recordings when the CPD had brought him and his over-priced lawyer into interrogation, even called in a favor to observe one or two of them herself. Cool as a cucumber. No tells, no gives, no nothing.

Not now. Not when he thought she was going to turn him down and leave him dangling.

She didn't know what was worse – that he expected it or that she was tempted.

The manila envelope continued to stare at her. Mocking her, she could have sworn to it.

"You could have given this to Dresden," she said at last. "Like you said, you would have traded favors with him anyway."

"Yes."

"And he doesn't have to go through the same channels I do. He could have, you know," she waggled her fingers, "done his thing."

"Yes." He glanced away, taking a moment. His next words were cautious. "But he doesn't understand this city. Not the way you and I do."

No, no, he didn't. Harry was an excellent choice for Chicago's protector from all things that went bump in the night. Fiercely loyal, stubborn to a fault and he never gave up until all hope was lost. But he wasn't a native, hadn't grown up here, didn't have the essence of the city bred deep down into his bones. There were ebbs and flows he didn't understand, tides he'd never see.

But little Karrin and Johnnie, ah, they would have been a different story, wouldn't they?

"Let me guess," she said. "Your neighborhood was split – half the guys got made, half got a shield."

"Speaking from experience, Sergeant?"

"Touché." Sighed, placed her hand on the table. Her fingers didn't quite touch the edge of the envelope. "I'm not Organized Crime or IAB. It won't be the easiest case to make."

Again, he gave her that small, tight smile. "I trust in your resourcefulness."

"There will be questions about where I got this information."

"I'm sure you wouldn't be the first police officer to rely on an anonymous tip to point you in the right direction."

"No, I guess I wouldn't be." She took a deep breath and placed her hand on the envelope. This was it: commitment. "You're trouble, you know that, Marcone?"

"I've been told that once or twice, yes."

"Okay. Okay, then." She rose, envelope tucked under her arm. "I guess that's it."

"Indeed. Though..." He trailed off, leaving the question unasked.

She frowned. "What?"

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. His gaze settled on her, that unnerving intensity focused once more. "Have you taken up the sword?"

A chill ran up her spine. "How – how did you-?"

"I have sources within that community. And it was obvious Mr. Carpenter would no longer be actively working. Rumor had it you might have taken his place. Have you?"

She had no idea how to respond to that. What in hell could he be playing at? Was this a potential threat? A backdoor to placing her under his control? Pure curiosity?

"What difference would it make to you if I did or didn't?" There. Ball back in his court.

"None at all. I thought only -" A pause. He looked away. "Well, I suppose Chicago could do worse. God, as well, if you believe in that sort of thing."

Well. As long as she lived, she was never going to understand this man.

"I have to go," she said.

"Of course."

"Thanks for the coffee."

"You didn't drink any."

She shrugged, turned her back on him and left.

-

END


End file.
